


La Liberté

by birdafterdark, wickedlyklaining



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdafterdark/pseuds/birdafterdark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedlyklaining/pseuds/wickedlyklaining
Summary: When the campus newspaper, La Liberté, starts publishing articles critical of the university administration, Public Safety Officer Javert bans the club from meeting on campus. The staff, who call themselves Les Amis de l'ABC, begin meeting at a café run by Éponine Thénardier, where Editor in Chief Enjolras gets to know the cynical barista Grantaire. Meanwhile, tensions rise between Officer Javert and Student Union Liaison Madeleine, who defends the radical students (and might be harboring a criminal past).
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was created with wickedlyklaining for the Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition. Amis chapters written by the lovely wickedlyklaining; Javert and Valjean chapters by birdafterdark.

The first time Joly barrells inside the Musain shouting something about “liberty of expression” and “students’ union”, Grantaire brushes it off and goes back to cleaning the bar before the next wave of students arrives and starts attacking him with orders. Eponine doesn’t pay attention to it, either; instead, she prepares Joly an extremely sweet cup of hot chocolate and settles him at a table at the back to “deal with him later,” as she puts it. 

Paris is starting to look gloomy, with dark clouds menacingly covering the last traces of sunlight. The streets shine, covered in puddles of water, and every step splashes tiny droplets of it against the nearest walls. Grantaire stomps his feet a little just to see the drops of water dance around his shoes before falling back down again, covering the floor of the Musain’s terrace. The tables out there are covered in a mixture of raindrops and dust that Grantaire finds fascinating at the moment, his hand itching to find the right shading for the muddy mix. 

The café remains mostly empty. Eponine stays inside brewing things just to try them out, different recipes she has found on blogs and Youtube tutorials. Joly, having decided at some point to humour Eponine and leave his story for later, is resting his head against the window behind him, the steamy cup of chocolate held tightly between his fingers. There are a couple of old guys bickering about something Grantaire can’t quite catch, and that he’s sure wouldn’t be that interesting in the end, occupying one of the tables near the front door and a cat is sitting suspiciously close to the trash can by the entrance. 

The bells hanging above the door remain quiet for the rest of Grantaire’s shift and by the time the old guys and the cat are gone, he is ready to throw his apron under the counter and ask Eponine to join him at the bar at the end of the street. He’s got a project due in less than three weeks and the easels back at his apartment still look painfully empty, so Eponine agreeing is risking a lecture about “letting your shit to the last minute is getting you closer to being evicted from the apartment”. The stakes are high but it’s a beautiful Friday night and Grantaire is feeling lucky. 

When the streets outside the café are starting to grow emptier and the smell of coffee is clinging to everyone’s clothes, Grantaire locks the door and wraps his arms around himself to shield his body from the crispy Paris air. Joly puts his beanie back on and throws an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders before following behind Eponine, who is already halfway down the first block towards the bus station. 

“When is Gavroche back?” Joly asks, yelling a little bit so Eponine hears him over the soft murmur of nighttime Paris coming to life. 

“Sunday. My dad is dropping him off after they’re done at the shop.” Grantaire can’t see her but her face must be doing that thing where her brows furrow and her lips form a thin line, an expression she mostly reserves for when she talks about her parents.

“Is it even legal they’re making a thirteen year old work for them?” Joly turns his head slightly and Grantaire isn’t sure if this one is aimed at him. 

“They don’t know the meaning of legal, Joly, what do you think?” 

Joly, bless his beautiful, innocent soul, drops the subject with a defeated sigh.

“Hey,” Grantaire nudges him softly on the side. “Your interview, how did it go?”

“Right!” Joly’s face lights up and Grantaire chuckles despite himself. “As I was saying before  _ someone _ put me in time out-” Joly exclaims loud enough for Eponine to hear. 

“I didn’t put you on time out,” she calls out, turning her head slightly to look at them. “I just delayed this very important conversation a few minutes.”

Joly hums and thinks about it for a second, and he decides that the best response is to ignore it. Always the biggest man. “Anyway, my meeting went great! They told me they’re really interested in my mental health column and offered me half a page for a whole month.” 

If it were someone else being this excited about extra work for a newspaper run by idealistic college students, Grantaire would be cracking a joke without giving it a second thought, but this is Joly and the guy really just wants to make the world a better place through safe habits healthy environments and checking his tongue in the mirror. Not even Grantaire is so cruel as to break his illusion. 

“Sounds good. Is that what you wanted?” 

“Yes! Almost the whole staff was there, they’re really talented and willing to help me. Their leader wasn’t there today but everyone's always talking about him and running things by him. He must be good.” 

“‘Leader’? Joly, did you just join a cult?”

Eponine snorts as she stops at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. 

“I’m not sure,” Joly bites his lip and smiles. “But if I did I’m already on their good side because I found them a place for their meetings.”

“Don’t they meet on campus?” Grantaire asks as the light turns green and the cars stop to let them pass, Eponine almost sprints across the street and the way she is rushing makes Grantaire re-think his plan for drinks. “I’m sure I’ve seen some of them giving out fliers and stuff.” 

“They used to, but they’ve been having some trouble with the authorities there. They think their project is too political and daring for a respectable institution like theirs.” 

The last part is spoken in what Joly must assume is a good impression of the college president. Grantaire knows it's not even close to accurate.

“Well, they do talk a lot of shit about the big bosses there, if it were me I wouldn't let them around either.” 

Joly turns to him with a killing glare so fast Grantaire can swear he must have hurt his neck.

“Not defending them, buddy. Just stating that it makes sense Robin Hood and his writing gang aren’t very welcomed around campus.”

“Robin Hood?” 

Grantaire shrugs. 

“Well, I talked to this guy named Courfeyrac but he kept talking about someone named Enjolras and someone named Combeferre, so no Robin Hood there.”

“Okay then, Enjolras and his writing gang.”

“You think Enjolras is the big boss?”

“Don’t know, sounds like an idealistic revolutionary guy who would spend his free time reading news blogs just to get upset. But Combeferre is a close call, too.”

“Okay, yeah. Anyway, they are kind of rushing the next issue so I told them The Musain is big and has lots of tables and they-”

Eponine stops in her tracks so fast Grantaire has to maneuver himself and Joly out of the way to avoid a fatal crash.

“You  _ what _ ?”

“You are always complaining about how you need more clients so your parents are happy.” Joly’s shrug is so full of innocence Grantaire bets he’s not aware of the fury radiating from Eponine’s eyes. 

“Joly…” she growls, her hands forming fists inside the pockets of her long brown coat.

Her lips are tight and even Grantaire feels the need to take a step back, but Joly just keeps going, his hands moving in the air as he tries to diagram to her how much of a genius he is. “Do you know how much coffee a group of college students who happen to want to change the world through the way of literacy, consumes in one day?”

Obviously Eponine doesn’t know but her face softens for the fraction of a second. “A lot?” she says, sounding a bit defeated.

“Liters and liters, Ep. I’m gonna make you rich!”

Eponine growls and rolls her eyes, and she turns around and keeps walking, but her shoulders drop and she stays close to Joly and Grantaire. They don’t talk about Joly’s genius idea again until they’re all at the bus stop and Eponine says in an aggressive whisper, finger jabbing into Joly’s chest, “No political shit that involves my café, no preppy frat guys who think they’re better than the world and no hyperactive people jumping around tables, got it?” 

Joly lights up and solemnly nods. “Two of those I can arrange, let me work in the other one.” 

Grantaire wants to ask which one “the other one” is but Eponine is smiling and she is playfully nudging Joly with her elbow, so maybe he’ll ask Joly later when they’re safe and a few feet away from Eponine.

Grantaire’s plans for a drink are definitely ruined now, but Joly looks too satisfied for his own good, Eponine is fondly patting his cheek, and for tonight that sight will have to do. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old cop opened the paper to the opinion page, smoothed the newsprint flat against the rickety table, and jabbed a finger aggressively at the editorial, causing Madeleine’s latte to slosh over the sides of the wide-mouthed cup. He dabbed at the spilled liquid, trying to keep his expression mild, but little could be done about the soggy spot that now obscured the headshot of the La Liberté’s Editor in Chief. The ink had already been fuzzy, thanks to the cheap printing process; now Enjolras’ face was entirely unrecognizable. 

The old cop opened the paper to the opinion page, smoothed the newsprint flat against the rickety table, and jabbed a finger aggressively at the editorial, causing Madeleine’s latte to slosh over the sides of the wide-mouthed cup. He dabbed at the spilled liquid, trying to keep his expression mild, but little could be done about the soggy spot that now obscured the headshot of the _La Liberté_ ’s Editor in Chief. The ink had already been fuzzy, thanks to the cheap printing process; now Enjolras’ face was entirely unrecognizable. 

_ He would like that _ , Madeleine reflected.  _ Anonymity. Enjolras isn’t running the newspaper; the people are.  _

“Have you  _ read this _ , Madeleine? These students are openly inciting rebellion against the administration! Which technically includes you, by the way. They’re calling it ‘civil disobedience.’ As if disobedience could ever be civil.” Javert snorted, then took a deep swig of coffee. 

“You know, Henry David Thoreau said — ”

“I do not care what that hipster said.” 

Madeleine furrowed his eyebrows. “Hipster? Thoreau?”

The expression that briefly flashed across Javert’s face could almost pass for embarrassment. “Hipster. You know, hippie. They’re the same, right?” 

“Not … exactly. You should try talking to the students more.” Javert only replied by draining his coffee. The curly-haired barista swiftly appeared to whisk the cup away for a refill. “Also, Thoreau predates the hippie movement by more than a century.” 

“ _ Please _ spare me the history lesson.” For a moment, Javert was silent, avoiding Madeleine’s eye. Then the spell passed. “As public safety officer, I’m responsible for ensuring that the campus is safe. Inciting rebellion is not safe. I’m shutting them down.” 

“I’m afraid that’s not within your power, officer,” Madeleine said softly, folding his hands and leaning forward. “I oversee student activities, and I don’t think this club poses a threat. So they stay.” 

Javert’s face had gone an alarming shade of red by the time the barista — Grantaire, Madeleine thought his name was — arrived with more coffee. 

“Black and strong, as usual,” the boy said, setting it on the table. Then, looking from Javert to Madeleine and back again, he said, “Is this gentleman bothering you, officer? Should I ask him to leave?” 

Javert made some incomprehensible growling sound, like a caged beast, and Grantaire turned to leave, but the officer caught him by the arm and pulled him back to the table. 

“Grantaire, what do you think about the university administration?” Javert asked, his eyes never leaving Madeleine’s.

“I …. I think they’re doing a fine job?” he said, more as a question than an answer. “Honestly, I don’t think much about it. I’m just here to improve my art and get an education.” 

“Thank you, Grantaire. You may go.” 

“I know I can go. It’s a free country, ain’t it?” The kid — a rather scruffy one with dried paint on his apron, Madeleine noticed — made his way back toward the counter, half-heartedly bussing a few tables on the way. 

“See, there’s a good student,” Javert said. 

“A sassy art major?” 

“A sassy art major who knows the purpose of college is to keep your head down and earn your degree. Nothing like these trust fund kids playing revolutionary.” 

Madeleine sighed. 

“You may have the authority to allow them to continue existing as a club,” Javert continued, “but I’ve already spoken with the facilities folks and they won’t be provided any space to meet on campus. I’m working on a report about their activities at the president’s request.”

The old cop stood up, all 6 feet and one inch of him towering Madeleine, and buttoned his heavy, tattered coat. He drank the entire cup of coffee in one enormous gulp, then glowered at Madeleine. 

“And if you don’t stop defending them, you’ll find yourself in that report, too, ‘Monsieur Madeleine.’” 

Javert strode out into the evening, turning his collar up against the rain and letting the cafe door slam shut behind him, causing the bell to jangle angrily. 

Madeleine sipped his latte slowly, listening to the gentle sound of the rain on the window pane and the murmur of a few students chatting and typing on their laptops. Outside the window, a slightly damp cat was sheltering itself underneath the cafe’s sidewalk table, its neon green eyes fixed on the trash can nearby. 

When the sun had set and he’d finished the drink, he took the mug up to the counter and asked the barista if the Musain served sandwiches. 

“Well, technically, we stop serving food at three,” Grantaire informed him, pointing at a sign taped to the wall. “And we’re about to close up anyway.” 

“Well, I was actually just hoping for some turkey. You don’t actually need to prepare a meal for me, just a turkey slice would be fine. Think I could buy that off you?” 

The boy gave him a strange look. “I … guess. I just need to check that we still have some.” 

He came back with a few slices of turkey on a plate. “You sure this is what you want?” 

“Yes, that’s perfect. How much?” 

“Uhhh. I don’t think you need to pay anything. It can’t cost very much, this isn’t even as much as we put in one sandwhich.” Nevertheless, Grantaire’s voice was low and his eyes darted toward the kitchen, as if he was afraid someone would overhear. 

“No, no, I’m going to pay you. What do you normally charge for a turkey sandwich?” 

“Seven euro. But — “ 

Madeleine pulled a crisp 20 euro note from his wallet and pushed it toward Grantaire, then pulled the turkey from the plate and stuffed it in his coat pocket. 

“Sir, that’s way too much — ” 

“Then keep the extra for yourself,” Madeleine called over his shoulder on his way out the door. “Buy yourself some new paint. Or a new apron.” 

Outside the Musain, the rain had faded into a gentle mist, which Madeleine could feel settling on his curly hair. He knelt down until he was nearly eye to eye with a mass of black fur, which began to stand on end as the cat backed away from what must have seemed like a monstrously large creature accosting it. 

“It’s ok,” he whispered, voice a full octave higher than normal. “I won’t hurt you, sweetheart.” He took out the turkey and began tearing it into strips, placing it near the kitten and then backing away. 

Within a few minutes, the kitten was eating from his palm. Half an hour later, it was nestled in the crook of his arm as he walked to his car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a dent on the table where Enjolras keeps tapping his pen to the rhythm of whatever the library receptionist is playing through the speakers. He’s been re-reading the latest article Courf sent him about student insurance for the past hour and the words are starting to blur one with the other, so he pushes the laptop aside and closes his eyes for a second.

There’s a dent on the table where Enjolras keeps tapping his pen to the rhythm of whatever the library receptionist is playing through the speakers. He’s been re-reading the latest article Courf sent him about student insurance for the past hour and the words are starting to blur one with the other, so he pushes the laptop aside and closes his eyes for a second.

_ Breath in and out, Enjolras.  _ That’s what Combeferre is always telling him; it doesn’t work wonders but at least his heart rate starts to slow down a beat or two. Things around the paper have been too chaotic even for them, after their latest number, which included an open letter to the college president about cases of power abuse between some teachers of a few faculties, and things blew up before any of the Amis had a chance to react. People started sending hate mail, gratitude mail, application mail, and, mostly, stories and complaints to be put in the paper.

Of course, all the noise brought attention to the problems the  _ Liberté _ was created for, but it also brought the weight of the college board upon them. Two days after Courfeyrac announced the total success of their latest issue, Enjolras’ phone beeped with the alert of a new email. Between the new application from a law student and a complaint over unhealthy menus at the campus cafeteria, was a short mail from Officer Javert asking Enjolras to meet him on Friday to “discuss space arrangements” regarding the paper. Apparently those “space arrangements” included a cut from the budget and the  _ Liberté _ being stripped off its campus recognition and meeting room.

Enjolras had listened to Javert with the blankest expression he could pull, his hands forming fists where they were resting on his lap. He’d then just nodded, stood up, and walked out while texting Combeferre about how punching college authorities should not be considered a crime. 

Enjolras had headed to the library after that, and that’s where Combeferre finds him a few hours later, back hunched, laptop forgotten and pen tapping aggressively against the wooden desk. 

“Montparnasse is going to kill you if you leave a mark,” Combeferre whispers, his library manners on point as usual.

The tapping stops, but Enjolras keeps his eyes closed. “Montparnasse?”

There’s some rustling and the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor before Enjolras feels Combeferre settling next to him. “He’s been working here for a while.” 

Enjolras nods and throws a look to the reception desk, where a tall boy wearing a leather jacket over a v-neck shirt is currently rolling his eyes at a nervous looking student.

“So, budget cuts?” Combeferre asks as he pulls out a few books from his bag.

Enjolras turns back to Combeferre just as the student asks for another book, earning another roll of eyes. “Yes. That’s what he called it.” Enjolras huffs out and rubs his forehead. “We can’t keep the paper up without a place to work.”

Combeferre folds his arms over his chest and looks up at the ceiling, Enjolras mimics him but his eyes focus on a particular aisle a few feet away from them, where a guy is dozing off on the floor. That’s how they stay for several minutes, gears turning as both try to make sense of what their next step should be. 

“You know,” Combeferre cuts in, just as Enjolras is considering going back to Courf’s article. “The new writer, Joly, he told Courfeyrac that he has a place. We could go see it.”

Behind them there’s a loud thud and Enjolras can practically see Montparnasse swearing at a pile of books scattered over the floor. “Sure,” Enjolras says, nodding. He grabs his pen back as Combeferre fishes for his phone to text Courfeyrac. When the tapping with the pen begins again Combeferre shoots him a cautious look,  which Enjolras ignores. 

By the time they leave, there’s a little circular dent on the left corner of the desk that makes Enjolras proud.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The edges of the newspaper crumpled underneath Javert’s tightening grip. He’d already read this article several times over, but that didn’t stop the anger from boiling up each time. He leaned back in his leather wingback armchair, letting his right hand drift over to the side table and pick up his wine glass without taking his eyes off the newspaper. 

**_An Open Letter to the President_ **

_ Dear President Baudelaire,  _

_ We, Les Amis de l’ABC, write to draw your attention to the gross and systemic abuses of power occurring at all levels of our university.  _

_ Les Amis are composed of university students, faculty, and staff who have grown concerned about these abuses and the tense, unhealthy atmosphere that pervades the campus.  _

_ What follows is a list of incidents involving the mistreatment of members of the university community by people in a position of power. This list should not be considered comprehensive ... _

The edges of the newspaper crumpled underneath Javert’s tightening grip. He’d already read this article several times over, but that didn’t stop the anger from boiling up each time. He leaned back in his leather wingback armchair, letting his right hand drift over to the side table and pick up his wine glass without taking his eyes off the newspaper. 

He skimmed the extensive list of “abuses” chronicled by these rabble-rousers and then focused on the part of the letter that really got under his skin. 

_ We call on all those who care about the well-being of our university community to employ all means of nonviolent protest at their disposal. Alumni, refuse to donate money unless President Baudelaire investigates the incidents and makes it clear that such behavior is not tolerated on our campus. Faculty, refuse to promote the school in public, write letters to journals in your field about the abuses you’ve seen, use your platform to put pressure on the administration to do the right thing. Staff, strike! Let the community see how important your work is; how much we rely on you to clean our classrooms, mow our grass, serve our food. _

Javert snarled, pausing to reflect on how dangerous this ridiculous call to action was. What these students were encouraging would result in utter chaos. The community would break down if people failed to perform their jobs. And this group — led by that arrogant, unbearable Enjolras — was actually telling alumni and faculty to do things that would actively harm the university’s standing! How could they do that in the name of making the university a better place?

He lifted the newspaper to continue reading, but another troubling thought occurred to him and he dropped the pages to his lap again. 

He himself, Javert, the head of campus public safety, was a member of university staff! How would Enjolras and his crew like it if he went on strike? He shuddered at the idea. Lawlessness would reign. These “Amis” wouldn’t be so keen on strikes if there was no one to stop criminals from mugging, groping, and stealing from the students. 

Feeling smugly satisfied with his argument — he’d have to use it next time Madeleine tried to defend the  _ Liberté _ — Javert returned to the article.

_ And to our fellow students: Arrange walk-outs of your classes. Organize a tuition strike. Hold protests and rallies. Write for us!  _

_ If you ever feel you need structural or moral support in these activities, you are always welcome to reach out to the Amis, to student union liaison Monsieur Madeleine, or to university chaplain Rev. Mabeuf.  _

Javert felt his anger surging again. He realized now that he’d never read the very last paragraph of this article. So Madeleine and his friend, that eccentric Mabeuf, were  _ actively supporting _ these troublemakers? The  _ nerve _ ! 

He folded the paper neatly and placed it on a small pile near his chair. Then he opened the notebook he used to plan his day and left a reminder to himself to meet with these two renegade staff members tomorrow.   
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “R,” Eponine calls, and when Grantaire opens his eyes he feels more than a pair of eyes on him. At least half of the Les Amis are staring at him, Courfeyrac is covering his mouth to suppress a giggle, a cute, thin, blonde guy with long hair and braids looks almost fond, and Enjolras ... well, Enjolras looks a little pissed. “I know my brownies are good but you were moaning in the middle of that dude’s speech.”

The Les Amis - Grantaire lets out an ugly snort when Joly tells him the name for the first time - come barrelling through the door of The Musain a week later, arms carrying boxes of printed outlines, laptops, various kinds of posters, and some plushies Grantaire reallys wants to know the purpose of. 

Joly is following behind them next to a tall guy with a very shiny and very bald head, and if Grantaire wants to touch it, he tries to not let it show. Behind them there’s two guys awkwardly standing in the entrance, sizing up the space as if it were to hurt them in some way. Grantaire guesses that’s his cue to step in.

“We’re not the fanciest office building, but we have clean bathrooms,” he says petulantly, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “Stop looking so terrified.” 

The taller guy steps in and politely reaches out a hand to Grantaire. “I’m sorry, we’re just taking in the view. I’m Combeferre.” 

Grantaire hums and takes Combeferre’s hand. 

“And I am Courfeyrac.” A tall guy with a blinding smile and wild mop of curls on his head steps in and takes Grantaire’s hand from Combeferre. “You’re cute, do you happen to be interested in writing with us?” 

Grantaire snorts at that and, since this is what his life has come to, winks at the guy in front of him. “I’m a barista, but thanks for the offer.”

Combeferre places both hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders and squeezes gently. He pushes him forward and throws Grantaire an apologetic look. “Sorry, he’s been single for a while.”

“I’m in pain, Ferre, how dare you use it against me?” Courfeyrac whispers dramatically with a hand over his chest. Their fight, if that’s what you could call that, continues as both guys walk inside the cafe, Combeferre now guiding his friend with an arm around his shoulders. Grantaire doesn’t catch much more than an “asshole” and “my butt is incredible” as they go, but that’s more than what he wants to hear. 

Grantaire snorts and turns on his heels to close the door before heading back to the counter when he’s engulfed into a pair of arms that hold onto him to regain balance after crashing against him. 

“Oh.” The owner of the arms, because of course the arms had an owner, says softly as he takes a step back and shoots Grantaire an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

The guy is wearing a beanie that does a very poor job at hiding blonde curls and a long black coat over what looks like a red cardigan. His cheeks look pink from the cold wind outside the store and his eyes seize Grantaire with a curiosity that makes his skin burn. 

“Uhm...it’s fine,” he dumbly says, mind busy trying to figure out what exact color the guy’s irises are. “Are you looking for - ”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire turns around in a second to find the lanky, baby-faced boy waving a hand towards him and the guy, Enjolras. 

“Our fearless leader is finally home!” Courfeyrac says as he walks towards them, a suspicious smile on his lips. 

“I’m not your lea - ” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all the same and all that stuff. I’m just messing with you.” Courfeyrac says, now hooking an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. 

Enjolras sighs and takes off the beanie before running his fingers through the locks to put them back in place. Grantaire wonders if he does that a lot. “Is everyone here already?”

Courfeyrac nods and shoots a playful look at Grantaire. “Yes! And I even got us a cute barista to lift our spirits.” 

Grantaire chuckles and raises his eyebrows at Courfeyrac. “Sure, I’ll even bring vegan cookies or whatever it is you rebels consume to maintain Mother Earth’s happiness.” 

It’s then that something clicks inside Grantaire’s head and he feels stupid. Of course this is him, of course the leader of the group of idealistic rebels is this Apollo-looking guy with pink cheeks, deep blue eyes, and warm arms. And of course he is now shooting Grantaire an annoyed look before walking past him with nothing more than a curt nod. 

If Grantaire wants to bang his head against the nearest wall, well, he tries not to let it show. 

By the time the meeting starts at the back of The Musain, even Eponine is sitting on a stool near the counter. Grantaire walks up to her with a plate full of mini brownies. “Checking on your new customers?” 

Eponine glances at the plate and raises an eyebrow. “You’re paying for these?”

“No, you are, because you’re a great boss,” Grantaire says and pops a brownie inside his mouth.

It’s been almost two years since the day he walked into the Musain for a coffee and left with a part-time job, two years and he still doesn’t understand what kind of magic Eponine works inside the kitchen to create pastries that are this good. The chocolate is just bitter enough and the consistency is soft but crunchy on the outside. Maybe there’s a trace of cinnamon there, too. Grantaire will take a batch home just to make sure.

“R,” Eponine calls, and when Grantaire opens his eyes he feels more than a pair of eyes on him. At least half of the Les Amis are staring at him, Courfeyrac is covering his mouth to suppress a giggle, a cute, thin, blonde guy with long hair and braids looks almost fond, and Enjolras ... well, Enjolras looks a little pissed. “I know my brownies are good but you were moaning in the middle of that dude’s speech.”

Of course the dude is Enjolras and of course he is upset about a stranger moaning through an important speech about social injustice. Still, Grantaire feels bold and a bit high on sugar so he mutters a soft “sorry” to everyone else and winks at Enjolras. What can he lose, right? 

Courfeyrac loses it and goes into a laughing fit; Combeferre pats him on the back when he starts to choke. The rest of the group starts laughing as well, but Enjolras just looks down and rubs his forehead.

“Can we keep going, please?” he asks, voice calm but brows furrowed. 

Around the room, everyone straightens up in their chairs and takes deep breaths, especially Courfeyrac, and in a few minutes the room is back in order. Combeferre takes the floor first and informs the room about the new recruits, Courfeyrac gives them a brief list of possible articles and corrections on their most recent works, and then Enjolras is taking the front. 

When he steps in front of the chairs Grantaire and Eponine arranged this morning to form a half-circle, he looks taller, his shoulders drawn back and his chin trutting forward, his eyes shine and his words start flowing in seconds, like the sun spilling through the blinds behind him. He talks about tuition raises, a few racism cases on campus, misogyny on big faculties, and many other things Grantaire always hears on the news and usually ignores. It’s not that he doesn’t care about them, it’s just that: what can an anxiety-driven art major do about it? 

Still, Enjolras talks with the force of an army and with the passion of a young man who believes he and his group of friends can really make a change. For some reason, it makes Grantaire wish he would care a little bit more.

For the rest of the meeting the brownies are left forgotten on the counter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the first truly warm day of spring, Madeleine ate his lunch on a bench in the main quadrangle. Cosette had packed him a jambon-beurre, simple yet delicious: a crusty baguette, a thick layer of butter, some Camembert, and a bit of thinly-sliced ham. He knew some crumbs were accumulating on his cardigan, but the feeling of the sun hitting his skin and the delicate smell of cherry blossoms made him feel so content that the mess didn’t embarrass him in the slightest. 

On the first truly warm day of spring, Madeleine ate his lunch on a bench in the main quadrangle. Cosette had packed him a jambon-beurre, simple yet delicious: a crusty baguette, a thick layer of butter, some Camembert, and a bit of thinly-sliced ham. He knew some crumbs were accumulating on his cardigan, but the feeling of the sun hitting his skin and the delicate smell of cherry blossoms made him feel so content that the mess didn’t embarrass him in the slightest. 

As he savored the sandwich, he watched Fauchelevent digging up the little saplings nearby, tossing them into his rusty wheelbarrow.

  
“I still cannot believe they make you do this every year,” Madeleine said in between bites. “Why don’t they just plant the trees and leave them there?” 

“The newly planted trees look nice when the parents visit during accepted students weekend,” the old groundskeeper grunted, jamming the shovel into the ground. “It costs less to rent the saplings than to buy them and maintain them all year long. Plus, that way the guests think the campus has been freshly landscaped just before they enroll.”    
  
“So it gives potential students and their families false impressions  _ and _ allows the administration to use money on things they consider more important. Killing two birds with one stone. Creative. And not deceptive at all,” Madeleine said dryly, looking at the trees ripped from the earth with a twisted smile. “It’s a shame, really. The campus feels so peaceful with all these trees around.” 

“More often,” Fauchelevent said, heaving one of the larger saplings from its plot.   
  
“Huh?”   
  
Fauchelevent said nothing, so Madeleine pressed him further. “More often what?”   
  
“What do you mean, more often what?” The old man stopped work for a moment and wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of soil there instead.

“You said more often, and I don’t know what you were referring to.” 

Fauchelevent was leaning on his shovel and gazing at Madeleine with a completely baffled expression. “I was just saying what you said.” 

Madeleine put down the remainder of his sandwich and met the gardener's eye, his brow furrowed. He realized he must look equally confused. “But I didn’t say --” 

“I hate to interrupt such a  _ fascinating _ conversation,” came a deep voice from behind Madeleine, making him jump and causing his half-eaten sandwich to tumble off his lap and onto the ground, “but I need a word with Monsieur Madeleine. Surely the mystery of More Often can wait until later.”

Madeleine took one look at Javert’s dagger-like gaze and knew better than to argue. As he followed the officer off the quad, trailing behind him like a chastised child, the groundskeeper retrieved his sandwich from the dirt, sniffed it, and took a greedy bite.

***

Javert resisted Madeleine’s attempts at small talk as they crossed the campus together, dodging students rushing to and from classes. The man walked fast, making it difficult for Madeleine to speak without becoming breathless, so he fell silent. He was puzzled when they passed the public safety building as well as the student union. He’d assumed Javert wanted to talk in one of their offices, but apparently not. Where were they going? 

Javert’s pace slowed as they approached the campus chapel, a non-denominational building overseen by the chaplain, Rev. Mabeuf. Madeleine was familiar with the building: It was a former chaplain who had recommended him for a job with the university years ago. Madeleine had recently been released from prison, but no one wanted to hire a parolee who had spent 19 years behind bars. The chaplain, Myriel, had convinced the jaded Madeleine and the suspicious university president to take a chance on each other ... and some 20 years later, everyone remained satisfied with the arrangement. 

Madeleine did not want to think about how his life might have gone if Myriel hadn’t intervened. He had been a regular at chapel services for the past two decades, always volunteering to help Myriel with behind-the-scenes tasks and usually staying to take afternoon tea with the aging man. When Myriel passed away a few years ago and his assistant, Mabeuf, took over chaplain duties, Madeleine continued with the same routine. 

In all that time, he had never once seen the grumpy ex-cop set foot in the chapel. 

Javert yanked the chapel door open and then stood there, propping it open with his foot. He looked expectantly at Madeleine.    
  
“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Javert snapped.

“Well, are you going inside, or ... ?” 

“I’m waiting for you to go inside first. Obviously.” 

It took a second for Madeleine’s brain to understand what was happening. “Are you ... are you holding the door for me? That’s very sweet, Javert. I’ve never seen you hold a door for anyone.” 

As he brushed past Javert, he thought he saw a hint of pink under the man’s bushy sideburns. Madeleine was acutely aware that he had never been in such close physical proximity to Javert, and was surprised when he realized that the other man smelled pleasant, almost comforting -- like tobacco mingled with something rich, warm, and woody. 

  
“Don’t read too much into it,” Javert grumbled, letting the door fall shut behind them. 

At the sound of the door closing, a short, balding man ambled out of an interior room. He was reading a thick book as he walked and mumbled something that sounded like “welcome to our humble chapel,” but it wasn’t entirely coherent. 

“What are you reading today, Mabeuf?” Madeleine asked, smiling.    
  
“Oh, hello, Jea --” Mabeuf broke off abruptly when he finally looked up from the book. He peered curiously at them through his spectacles. “ -- uhh, I mean, Monsieur Madeleine.”

Madeleine could feel Javert starting at him and willed himself to keep a straight face.    
  
“And I don’t believe we’ve met before. You’re the public safety officer, right? It’s .... Javert, I believe?” 

“Yes,” Javert said brusquely.    
  
“What brings you fellows to the chapel? I’ve seen Je -- er, Madeleine at our services often, but I don’t think I’ve seen you, officer.”    
  
“I have little need for chapels.” Madeleine was surprised by how severe Javert’s tone was. The officer had always been unpleasant to him, but Javert was usually exceedingly respectful, even reverent, when speaking to other campus authorities. 

Mabeuf shot Madeleine a perplexed look, and Madeleine shrugged. 

Javert was glowering at both of them.

“I’m simply here to inform you I have a meeting scheduled with President Baudelaire tomorrow and I intend to report both of you for aiding and abetting radical students bent on destroying the university. I suggest you have your affairs in order and plan to either reverse your course or be fired for insubordination.”

The officer turned on his heel and strode out of the building, his boots -- which, Madeleine observed, had a bit of a heel to them -- clicking rhythmically on the tile floor. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Mabeuf let out the snicker he’d clearly been suppressing for some time. The laughter was infectious, and soon Madeleine was giggling too. 

“My God, Jean,” Mabeuf said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “you’d think we set up barricades outside the administration building!” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting closes with everyone ready to work on the next issue. Joly gets his first column assignment and he bounces all the way to the door as he leaves with the bald guy he arrived with. After a few minutes the baby-faced guy gathers his stuff and awkwardly waves goodbye to everyone as he heads towards the door, Enjolras nods at him, Combeferre waves back, and Courfeyrac bullies him a bit when he trips over a chair . 

The meeting closes with everyone ready to work on the next issue. Joly gets his first column assignment and he bounces all the way to the door as he leaves with the bald guy he arrived with. After a few minutes the baby-faced guy gathers his stuff and awkwardly waves goodbye to everyone as he heads towards the door, Enjolras nods at him, Combeferre waves back, and Courfeyrac bullies him a bit when he trips over a chair . 

In the end it’s only Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the back of the café. The girl with short, dark hair whose name Grantaire really can’t remember leaves with the guy with the braids -- Jehan, Grantaire thinks -- at some point before it starts getting darker outside, and both take their time to actually stay a few minutes to say goodbye to Grantaire and Eponine. 

The sun is almost setting and painting the sky with oranges and purples when Grantaire serves his last order of the day to an old lady who tips him with a few lipstick-stained pennies. When the counter is completely empty and it’s only Eponine nearby fixing some inventory issues by the pastries, Grantaire takes a moment to look at the sky through the window and taps his fingers on the counter as he tries to commit the colors to memory in case he finally gathers enough energy to work on his project back home. 

“You guys never leave?” Courfeyrac, who at some point put everything in his bag, left his friends behind, and settled himself at the counter, asks with a sly smile.

Grantaire flinches at the sudden appearance but he recovers enough to say, “We couldn’t lock you in here,” and steals a glance to where Eponine is huffing at a piece of chocolate cake that must have offended her in some way. “I mean, I could, but she wouldn’t let me.” 

Courfeyrac snorts. “Fair enough.” He slides a ten euro note across the counter and a receipt for a plate of red velvet cookies. “Don’t worry, though, I’m leaving and taking Combeferre with me. Enj will probably just ask for a soy latte and then leave too.”

“Soy latte?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow and tries not to sound too curious as he retrieves Courfeyrac’s change. 

“It’s his go to drink when he has a long day.” Courfeyrac smiles sadly and Grantaire suddenly remembers these guys are being pushed aside by the most influential people on campus. Who is Grantaire to judge their coffee orders? 

“Copy that,” Grantaire says and ignores the fact that making a soy latte would take him at least fifteen more minutes. 

Fifteen more minutes he could use to head home a bit early and work on his project that’s due by the end of the month. Or fifteen minutes he could use to make a perfect latte for a guy he just met a few hours ago.

It’s an easy choice. 

Twenty minutes later, when Combeferre and Courfeyrac are gone and Eponine is almost done picking up her stuff, Enjolras finally makes his way from the back towards the door.

Grantaire pushes the latte across the counter. “Hey,” he calls and wants to backtrack a little bit when Enjolras turns around. “Your friend said maybe you wanted this.”

Enjolras’ eyes go from Grantaire to the latte for at least thirty seconds before he actually gets closer. “Thanks,” he mutters and sits on a stool. He starts sipping slowly and if Grantaire speaks next it’s because he can’t stand having Enjolras in front of him just looking like, well, Enjolras, and not say anything. 

“No wonder you guys are banned from campus.” Okay, maybe not the best way to kick off their friendship but at least Enjolras is now looking at him and not at a spot behind his head. 

“Sorry?”

“You’re annoying,” Grantaire explains and grabs a cloth just to keep his hands occupied. 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and cocks his head. ”Did we bother you while you were working?”

“No.” Grantaire shakes his head. “I just think it is exhausting seeing you go through all that trouble.” Grantaire gestures towards Enjolras’ bag, which looks as if it’s about to explode at any second. “You can’t change the way the world works.”

“Students organizations have been involved in the political shaping of the world for centuries. The biggest revolutions around the world have started with the student body.” Enjolras bites his lip, probably out of frustration. Grantaire shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does. 

“I have eyes,” he smirks and starts scrubbing the counter. He’s a dedicated worker who cares about sanitary norms, that’s all. 

Enjolras lets out an exasperated sigh as he stirs the latte. “Sorry, what’s your name again?”

Grantaire freezes because Enjolras is studying his face with an unreadable expression that could go from “I’m trying really hard not to punch you” to “you have something between your teeth but I’m too polite to say it”, his brows are furrowed and a few rebel blonde curls are falling over his forehead. 

Enjolras pissed off is cute ... and also, what  _ is  _ his name again?

“Grantaire. He’s nicer after a few cups of coffee,” Eponine throws in as she passes, marching towards the back of the café. She is carrying her backpack already and Grantaire knows he’ll have to do the dishes for a week after this. She hates staying too late after they close. 

“Okay then, Grantaire,” Enjolras says calmly after a particularly long sip. “We’re helpless but at least we’re doing something. It’s easy to talk and hide behind the bar of a coffee shop, isn’t it?”

The words sting Grantaire as soon as they leave Enjolras’ perfect and distracting mouth. Of course he’d manage to offend the righteous, rebellious guy in a five minute conversation, that’s what Grantaire does, he disappoints people after just five sentence conversations. He can’t blame Enjolras for it.

He answers in the best way he knows. “Saving the world one espresso at a time; you’re welcome, by the way.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond, he just throws him one last glance, slides a five euro note across the counter, grabs his cup, and heads back towards the door.

Grantaire doesn’t mean to take it out on the counter but maybe he scrubs with much more force than is necessary.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And maybe that was why Javert did it -- because he was disappointed in Baudelaire’s unenthusiastic response to his presentation. Or perhaps the way Mabeuf had stumbled over Madeleine’s name the day before was eating at him. Or maybe he was just tired -- tired of analyzing every interaction with the student union liaison, tired of pushing down his suspicions, tired of researching old criminal records and saving newspaper clippings in the ever-growing file labeled “JEAN VALJEAN,” tired of the energy it took to hate the man. 

  
Inside a spartan one-room apartment in Paris, an old cop sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Javert groaned as he remembered his meeting with the university president earlier that day.    
  
He had presented information about the group calling itself Les Amis de l’ABC, and while Baudelaire’s reaction wasn’t exactly  _ bad _ , he was clearly unimpressed. The man all but shrugged at the notion that a radical student group, supported by members of the university staff, was organizing protests and strikes on campus.    
  
“They’re college students,” Baudelaire said. “This happens sometimes. Continue to monitor them, please, but I’m sure this will fizzle out in no time.”

And maybe that was why Javert did it -- because he was disappointed in Baudelaire’s unenthusiastic response to his presentation. Or perhaps the way Mabeuf had stumbled over Madeleine’s name the day before was eating at him. Or maybe he was just  _ tired _ \-- tired of analyzing every interaction with the student union liaison, tired of pushing down his suspicions, tired of researching old criminal records and saving newspaper clippings in the ever-growing file labeled “JEAN VALJEAN,” tired of the energy it took to hate the man. 

Whatever the reason, Javert, after years of gathering evidence that was perpetually on the verge of being conclusive, finally voiced his suspicions to the university president.

“Oh, I know,” Baudelaire had said, not even looking up from the paperwork he’d started when their discussion of Les Amis wrapped up. 

Javert had long imagined this day and thought he was prepared for any response, but this was not one he had anticipated. It was a moment before he could speak.   
  
“Excuse me?”    
  
Baudelaire sighed and put down his pen. 

“Javert, I know. Monsieur Madeleine’s real name is Jean Valjean. He went to prison for armed robbery. He served his time for 19 years. He began working for us while he was still on parole. My predecessor told me all this when I became president. I am not concerned about it.” 

“But ...but  _ armed robbery _ , sir! You think it’s wise to have a hardened criminal around young, impressionable students?  _ Advising _ the students, no less?”

Baudelaire chuckled. “How much time have you spent with Madeleine? ‘Hardened criminal’? He’s the gentlest creature I have ever known. You do realize that the ‘weapon’ he employed during the robbery was a fake gun, right? And that he committed the crime to feed his starving family?” 

Javert  _ hadn’t _ known those details, but he couldn’t fathom what difference they made. “Armed robbery is armed robbery. It doesn’t matter what the criminal’s intentions are or if he’s actually able to hurt anyone. All that matters are his  _ actions _ .” 

Baudelaire fixed him with a penetrating stare.

“If that’s truly the way you think, Javert, I feel sorry for you. We haven’t had a single complaint about the man in the 20 years he’s worked here. Students love him. Parents love him. Professors love him. If you find evidence of something more, ah,  _ recent _ that you think I should be concerned about, don’t hesitate to bring it to me.” Baudelaire picked up his pen again and added, in a tone clearly conveying his desire to end the discussion, “In the meantime, consider getting to know Madeleine better. You might be surprised by what you find.”

***

He was back in Baudelaire’s office, but this time he was completely nude. The president looked him up and down, appraising every inch of his body, “hmm”ing over his scars. Then he jotted some notes down in his leather-bound journal and sighed.  
  
  
“I feel sorry for you, Javert,” the man said, looking him straight in the eye. Javert could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the embarrassment sitting like lead in his stomach. 

He looked down in shame, and when he glanced up again he realized he was no longer in Baudelaire’s office but in the chapel, where the eccentric old chaplain and Madeleine -- no, Jean Valjean -- were pointing at him and whispering. Then Valjean approached, a toy gun in his hand.    
  
“How dare you report on me, you narc?” the man asked, but his tone didn’t match his words at all -- it was soft, even a bit sad. “What did I ever do to you to make you so afraid of me?”   
Javert found himself stepping closer to Valjean, who dropped the plastic gun but stood his ground. Valjean was still wearing that hideous yellow cardigan he’d had on yesterday, but it hardly mattered -- he looked good in anything, with his toned muscles and his dancing hazel eyes and the way his white curls framed his face. 

“You’re not afraid of me at all,” Valjean whispered. Javert was close enough to smell him now, and he could think of nothing but the scent of peppermint and those warm hazel eyes. 

“You’re just afraid of how I make you feel,” Valjean said. Javert could feel his breath on his neck; they were so close that they were almost touching.

And then they  _ were _ touching. Javert tilted Valjean’s chin up and leaned forward, and then their lips met, and soon Valjean had Javert pressed up against the chapel wall -- 

Javert awoke with a start, his heart racing. He groaned as he realized what he’d been dreaming, feeling embarrassed even though there was no one to witness his depraved thoughts.    
  


What in God’s name made him dream  _ that _ ? 

He switched on the lamp on his nightstand and fumbled around for something to distract him. He ended up with  _ La Liberté  _ again, planning to re-read some of the more outrageous articles and channel his discomfort into anger. 

But he found he couldn’t concentrate on the political columns. Flipping through the paper, he found an article he hadn’t noticed before. It appeared to be an advice column called “Ask Euphrasie.” 

_ Dear Euphrasie, _ this issue’s column began,  _ I’ve just realized that I have a crush on another student, but I think he might find me annoying. How do I tell the difference between arguing and flirting? And how can I let him know I’m interested? _

Javert groaned and lowered the paper, leaning back against his headboard. To his great surprise, he found himself curious about Euphrasie’s answer. 

“Fuck,” he said. “What am I becoming?” 

Then he continued reading. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's on week six that Grantaire finally realises he’s got a crush on Enjolras. Nothing big, just a fluttery feeling in his chest whenever Enjolras talks, laughs, blinks, glares at him, sips his latte, or smiles at someone.
> 
> Well, maybe it’s a bit big.

The second time the Les Amis burst through the doors of The Musain, Grantaire already knows their names. The third time, he high fives Courfeyrac on his way in and teases the baby-faced boy - Marius - about the blonde girl that walked him all the way to the entrance of the café. Eponine remains professional and only nods at them when she hands them their coffee orders.

Over the next few days, Grantaire learns Jehan, the cute guy with blonde hair and braids, is a literature major who loves poetry and braids people’s hair as a hobby. Musichetta, dark, short hair girl, is in a relationship with Bossuet, bald guy, but both seem suspiciously kind to Joly lately. He also finds out Combeferre really likes red velvet cookies and Courfeyrac always orders him a few before every meeting. 

Eponine, as she tells Grantaire one day after one too many shots of vodka, learns that she is capable of developing a crush, but she will deny it after Marius announces he’s gathering the courage to ask the blonde girl - Cossette - to one of their meetings. The day of that announcement, Grantaire slips out when his shift is done without bothering Eponine. 

On week three, Enjolras talks about tuition raises and Grantaire tells him that’s just how capitalism works.

On week four, Enjolras talks about housing opportunities for students, and Grantaire tells him it’s impossible to change the way the president manages housing because it’s all about money for him. 

On week five, Enjolras talks about the importance of art and art funds for universities, and Grantaire tells him he’s right but that it’s naive to think anyone would choose arts over other extracurricular projects.

It's on week six that Grantaire finally realises he’s got a crush on Enjolras. Nothing big, just a fluttery feeling in his chest whenever Enjolras talks, laughs, blinks, glares at him, sips his latte, or smiles at someone.

Well, maybe it’s a bit big.

He also learns Enjolras barely talks outside of his speeches, that he scrunches his nose when he laughs at Bossuet's jokes, and that Grantaire is maybe the best person at getting on his nerves. Six weeks of meetings have proved that. Still, most days after the meetings, Enjolras finds a place by the counter and silently sips at different variations of soy milk beverages as Grantaire cleans up and prepares to close the shop. 

Today is no exception. Well, not entirely.

“The usual?” Grantaire asks as soon as he feels Enjolras’ presence in front of him.

“Black coffee, please.” 

“Oh, what happened with the non-threatening soy latte, Apollo?” 

“Don’t call me that.” Enjolras shoots automatically, a natural response by now. The nickname arrived in between arguments and for some reason Grantaire can’t drop it. “I need something stronger than a latte,” Enjolras adds, sighing, and Grantaire can now see the dark circles around his eyes, the deep furrow between his brows and the reddening spot on his lower lip where he clearly has been chewing recently. 

“I would offer a shot of vodka, but ...” Grantaire points to the clock hanging by the door, its hands slowly reaching the missing number six. “We’re still a family-friendly establishment.”

Enjolras’ back doesn’t straighten up when Grantaire hands him the steamy cup of black coffee, his head doesn't tilt in curiosity as he takes the first sip, and his eyes don’t squint as they usually do when Grantaire tries to coax a compliment out of him. Still, there’s the faintest trace of a smile on his face when Grantaire sneaks him a slice of carrot cake  _ (“Don’t worry about paying for it, I don’t consider that real cake.”) _ . __

Combeferre comes by a few minutes later carrying what must be a week’s worth of articles and drops them in front of Enjolras with a sigh. he looks just as tired and asks Grantaire for a coffee too before bowing his head to start reading important paragraphs out loud for Enjolras to listen to. They stay like that for a while, whispering things and scribbling notes on every blank space.

Grantaire cleans his station, helps Eponine with the pastries for the next day, and arranges the tables and stools back in their places. By the time The Musain is all tidy and perfect for the next day, Grantaire feels like he could go for a two hour nap. He grabs his bag and walks into the kitchen to drag Eponine home. 

“Go,” she says from where she is sitting on the kitchen floor finishing the inventory. “I have to wait for my parents here; they are dropping off Gavroche.” She looks over her shoulder and smirks. “You can walk with him, though.” 

Grantaire turns around to find Enjolras sitting by himself on a stool by the counter. He’s holding his phone tightly and frowning at something on the screen. Grantaire freezes. 

“You’ve been annoying the shit out of that guy, at least walk him home,” Eponine says with that tone Grantaire has come to known as the ‘you’re dumb, how do I put up with you?’ tone, and Grantaire knows she’s got a point but that doesn’t make things any easier. Still, he kneels down to kiss her cheek sloppily before heading out. A wet cloth flies over his head as he leaves.

The twenty seconds it takes Grantaire to get to the front of the shop are torture, but he composes himself enough to quietly ask, “You okay?” 

Enjolras turns around and his eyes go wide. “What?”

“You look like you’re about to throw your phone away.” 

Enjolras looks down and sighs. “Yeah, I guess I kind of want that.” His curls look messier than usual, as if he’s been running his fingers through them. “You’re closing already?”

Grantaire moves his hand vaguely towards the back. “You’re the only person who stays here after closing hours. I’m here to kick you out.” 

A chuckle escapes Enjolras lips and Grantaire has the sudden urge to run away, or to stay forever -- it's a confusing situation. “You’re just doing your job,” Enjolras says, and fixes the strap of his bag as he stands up. Grantaire’s heart definitely doesn’t pick up its pace at the thought of Enjolras being taller than him. 

Enjolras turns around and is halfway towards the door when Grantaire blurts out. “I’m heading out too.” Maybe his voice comes out high-pitched, but he’ll mourn for that later. Enjolras raises his eyebrows and his eyes widen when Grantaire steps closer. “I’ll walk with you.”

Outside, a few cars fill the streets with their loud horns and their scratching tires, but Grantaire can perfectly catch the soft “okay” that Enjolras lets out.


End file.
